


Not Not-Safe

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Episode Related, Episode Tag, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to “Gus Walks Into a Bank”. I once again veered into angst. You know who I blame too. If you haven't seen that episode, this story might not make much sense. Then again, I doubt it makes a lot of sense anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Not-Safe

When Gus is safely at home and tucked safely into bed in his safest pair of lavender pajamas with a very safe rerun of the _A-team_ in which good triumphs over John Saxon, Shawn finally stops hovering and listens to Gus’ billionth quiet—and honestly a little desperate—order and leaves him alone.

With Gus in bed, _safe_ and in bed, in PJs even, and the night time stretching out long and dark ahead of him, Shawn realizes that he can’t stop shaking, and it’s when he realizes that he can’t stop shaking that he also realizes that he’s parked his bike in front of Lassiter’s house.

That should be weird, since he’s not supposed to know where Lassiter lives, or show up uninvited since he’s pretty sure Lassie is heavily armed—always is, in every tense moment of shared, hot space and danger, a hard gun in his coat, in his pocket for Shawn to mock and rub against, for Lassie to squeeze—but here Shawn is anyway and the air isn’t cold at all.

 _Nothing_ is at all. Except that doesn’t make sense, only Shawn had stopped registering _anything_ a while ago, after the rescue, so of course he isn’t making sense, and even though he’d faked it, he knows Gus sensed that something was off.

Gus who is alive and gets to make cute, alive-Gus frowny faces at him _forever_ now, or at least until something dangerous happens again, and it will, even if next time it’s fun again, cartoonish again, Wile E. Coyote villains with overly elaborate plans and crazy sorority chicks with ghosts and axes.

Gus is alive and Shawn is alive, and Jules, and Dad, and Lassie, but maybe they won’t be, sometime, someday, so Shawn is trembling and completely blind and deaf to everything that isn’t his hand knocking on Lassiter’s door. Which isn’t Jules’ door, which is important, he thinks, when he _can_ think.

He can’t feel the air, hot or cold, can’t feel if he’s sweating or shivering, can’t smell grass or newly-tarred pavement, can’t hear crickets or cars, and that’s shock, not at all like sticking his fingers in a socket and ending up with hair like Yahoo Serious, nothing like getting slapped in the face; this is Henry throwing him in the shallow end to teach him to swim.

He gulps, barely keeps his head up when the porch light flicks on.

He’d half-expected a question or an order to leave, a longer pause while Lassie made it out of bed, but a second after the light comes on the door opens and Lassie is there, glaring at him like only Lassie can glare, like he ought to have his own Saturday morning, low budget, Hanna-Barbera series and shoot death rays from his eyes.

But he’s shirtless and Shawn’s gaze skips over the pale skin, the surprising and not-surprising muscles that he’s felt against him more than once, skips back until there’s a noise clawing at his throat, trying to get out.

Lassie has on _his_ PJs too, or just the lower half, solid blue flannel that looks soft to the touch, and he’s brushing his teeth—or was. Shawn interrupted him; his toothbrush is in one hand, in his mouth, tiny blue-ish green, neon-colored bubbles around his lips. His hair looks damp, strands arrowing down over his forehead, and after a moment his eyes get wide, though Shawn hasn’t said anything.

It’s _normal_ , Shawn decides, normal and maybe private, definitely everyday, and not even a little cartoonish with his toothpaste mouth and no suit on, though it should be, it always was, until today.

Today was all real. Today was how other people live, but not Shawn, not ever if he could help it, but he couldn’t, hadn’t, had babbled to Jules about men, not having Gus, possibly losing Gus.

But he hadn’t lost him, even with his bullshit, because of this. Of Lassie, who is calm in life or death situations even if Shawn can’t figure out how he can take it.

And even Shawn knows there are a lot of things there, things not-safe, or that should have been, but this, this _is_ safe right now, he knows it for a fact, even if Lassie is around. But only for now, tonight, and tomorrow aliens will land in Santa Barbara, or Girl Scouts will deal drugs in their Thin Mints—or already are, he can’t decide—or worse, Lassie will cross the street and end up flat and dead under a bus and then there won’t be anymore shared space, or heat, or what is not a gun against his hip. Danger that was okay even with sparks and warnings signs and fences that buzz. Fun danger that maybe had been okay too, compared to real life danger, to get used to and maybe deal with sometime, someday. Danger that wasn’t at all, was not not-safe, when the real threat was that he could have gone home, to another door.

He can’t open his mouth because all of that is inside it and that’s a lot, because today was _today_ , and Shawn is _drowning_ and Lassie is brushing his _teeth_ , because Lassie is used to living like this, with this, or because maybe he isn’t, and nobody ever really is, and Lassie is just as unable to sleep in the dark, lonely night time.

The question mark in that hurts, like a bullet ricocheting around in his brain, like when he’d thought Gus might actually and for real and ever die and everyone else was trying to distract him. As though the whole world is as strong as Gus and is just going to bed at the end of another day, and Shawn is the only one shaking and looking for whatever it is people cling to when they’ve just realized the obvious. Like a knight in shining armor from a long time ago and the man who will fight for his honor, or just the Johnny to his Omar.

So he looks up and then down, reaches out to get his palms against skin.

 _That_ he registers, hot and soft, more than Lassie’s swearing, awkward vocal Catholic confusion that sounds a lot like electricity crackling. He slides his hands over that skin, everywhere, then pushes, moving himself forward and down, until he’s inside and there’s at least carpet under his knees, against his jeans.

Lassie hits something, bumps something as he says Shawn’s name, but Shawn’s not about to look up, let go. He shivers at the sudden heat, how different it is from shaking although he can feel that too, sees his fingers trembling against a swath of blue.

Funny word, swath, he’d never say it out loud, couldn’t now anyway, not with Lassie saying his last name with that damn question mark over and over and the first chill of night air along his neck.

He doesn’t know if the door’s still open, shudders once more at just how soft Lassiter’s pajamas are, how normal and ordinary and boring even, like it’s any other night after any other day. His hands make fists in them, cling before they pull them down and Shawn shuts his eyes at the first shocked exclamation.

He fumbles blindly, opens his mouth and puts it around Lassie’s cock to keep himself from speaking, from hearing any damn _vibrato_.

Salt and heat, soft and then _hard_ , so hard and solid and real, thick, for him. He swallows and presses himself closer, because he only has moments here before it’s over, before it ends—and it will end; everything, it turns out, can end, just like that, like Keyser Soze blowing over his hand or God and trumpets and a funny English voice over, and if he’s lucky a short clip after the credits. But this will end, probably sooner and not later, has to.

The way he gulps isn’t smooth, his technique—never perfected—worse now. His hands feel slow, weak, so he’s clutching hard at the muscle of Lassie’s thighs, sucking his cock with loud, embarrassing sounds, slurping and wet, but he can hear them and then Lassie’s breathing above him, uncontrolled and ragged.

Poor Lassie, Shawn thinks, and something of the words slip out despite everything, despite the sweet skin against his tongue and the drops wetting his lips.

“Spencer…” Lassie warns him, warm and vibrantly pissed off, and if there’s even the sound of the door being closed, Shawn doesn’t know. He’s oblivious to everything but the fact that Lassie’s hands are moving through his hair. Slowly, carefully, everything Shawn isn’t though he tries to match them, to pull back enough to breathe but he can’t even get his head up, moans when he tries.

Lassie says his name like it burns, Shawn, not-Spencer, like Shawn’s under water but Lassie’s on fire, and there’s some sort of science-type chemical reaction that ought to be taking place where they touch. What there is though is just Lassiter, hands loose even when he’s coming, and Shawn swallowing it down.

He sucks until Lassiter swears again, until hands ease him away, and then his eyes open on their own, stupid because he’s suddenly, sharply above water and seeing again, sees fuzzy carpet and a toothbrush on the floor. Blue flannel bunched up at Lassiter’s bare feet, how his toes peek out.

He feels heat, embarrassment or something humiliating and tight, like too many piña colada Slurpies too fast, and he turns his head away, not even sure he can _try_ to say what there is in his mouth when Lassie asks. And he will.

Shawn turns the other way, and there’s a hard edge of brown at the corner of his eye, the leg of a couch.

Lassiter’s couch, in Lassiter’s house, and Lassiter’s hands suddenly pulling him up, lifting Shawn when Shawn tries to stay down.

Lassie is warm, but this time Shawn buries his hands in the scratchy fiber of the couch so that there isn’t any shaking to see, bends his head and finds his mouth over the bare skin of Lassiter’s shoulder. He sucks that too, tastes plain soap.

He feels his legs, bent, his body tight over something burning, and gasps when one big hand unzips his jeans and wraps itself around his cock.

He’s hard, he realizes. All that heat is arousal and a sticky, damp trail that Lassiter’s fingers leave below his stomach.

“That’s it,” Lassie tells him, and Shawn turns his head to follow the rumbles, pants into Lassiter’s ear. “Just a little…” Lassie is still talking, whispering, as though he doesn’t mind that Shawn is hard and Shawn moves for him, shifts at the words to rock into Lassie’s lap.

He’s not exactly sure when that happened, the hard for Lassie-thing, forever ago though he may have been blind and deaf to that too, but his body is saying it makes sense, and he makes another sound when Lassiter starts to stroke him.

It’s worse than any bullet to the brain, because it doesn’t hurt, because Lassiter is gentle.

 _Lassiter_ , and it’s like a human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together, mass hysteria, _Ghostbusters_ end of the world type thing; Shawn holds on tighter. He makes another noise, buries his face in the crook of Lassiter’s neck.

“It’s okay,” Lassiter growls, crazy words because it _isn’t_ , but his touch is light, lips soft in Shawn’s hair above his ear, and Shawn hitches up, falls forward without trying to save himself.

This isn’t ending. The words crowd onto his tongue until Shawn’s suffocating, has to open his mouth and the air is dry and harsh, sweet.

“Lass,” he gulps, the name itself shaking and wet, like a sob, and in the real world of his brown and boring living room, Lassie runs a touch across Shawn’s shoulders, brings Shawn closer even though the angle has to hurt his wrist, because he hasn’t stopped jacking him, not for a moment.

Shawn is stupid and aching and tight, strumming, and he wants to not-come so much, to stay like this. Lassie makes him feel everything. Life and safety and so _so_ good.

“…Good…” Now Shawn can hear just fine but he still strains for every word, every _echoing_ word like he’s speaking after all. And he can’t think of any jokes, even one snappy comeback, he’s only nodding, bringing his hands up to Lassie’s hair and rocking into his hands and letting out everything, vibrato or not.

“…A little more,” Lassie breathes and Shawn shuts his eyes, but Lassie is gentle for him now like he isn’t anywhere else, no fences, not a single gun, and Shawn’s been holding on all day—longer—and he’s too tired to try anymore.

His palms are slick, his breath too fast as he comes, abrupt and with no warning, hot in the space they share between them, as burning as Shawn is all over now, as the words he mumbles into the skin under his mouth.

He sees, feels, hears everything, but can’t move, can’t do anything but hide against Lassie until Lassiter lifts his head, speaks in a low, hoarse voice.

“Was this just to say thank you?” he wonders, and Shawn blinks, sees the dim lighting of the room, realizes the TV has been on the whole time—a late news report of the day’s events muffled in the background. “Or was this just stress?” Lassiter is waiting for him, maybe has been, sounds tired and just a little bit cranky.

Shawn flinches, looks up and sees Lassiter, messy hair and toothpaste mouth, looks down, sees his bare, red-marked chest, dripping with Shawn’s semen. He’s naked, totally naked under Shawn, who’s dressed. And he’s glaring, all cartoon death rays until Shawn opens his mouth.

Only whatever had been there before had escaped in that last desperate bid for freedom against Lassiter’s throat and Shawn can’t finish, can’t seem to start. He tries again and feels a renewed, terrifying surge of panic, like now it’s Lassie in that bank and Shawn can’t stay calm enough to do what he’s supposed to do to save him.

There’s too much. Is he supposed to say _everything_ here? That they are all alive but tomorrow they might not be, or that Shawn had been fine before waiting for this but he isn’t now, and…everything else. The forever stuff. The hoping for forever stuff.

He flounders, again, flails, reaches out, and maybe that’s why Lassie reaches up and runs his thumb along the back of Shawn’s neck, lets it rest at Shawn’s pulse.

Lassie’s hands, Shawn finally realizes, are shaking.

Shawn breathes out, and just like that, nothing ends, doesn’t have to, at least not for now, maybe not forever, and he can speak again, sigh as he leans forward to lick blue, bubblegum-y toothpaste from the edge of Lassie’s pink, pink mouth.

“Are you nuts? You aren’t supposed to ingest fluoride,” Lassie grumbles at him, and that isn’t a death glare after all. Lassie has no weapons of any kind, is so very _safe_.

“Lass,” Shawn’s voice is steady, like the rest of him, and it’s just like before only the frightening words rushing out of him make sense and it isn’t weird at all, “…You are so _sexy_ right now.”

 

The End


End file.
